


shelter in a storm

by AdamantSteve, dustbear



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Prostitution, dubcon, homeless!phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbear/pseuds/dustbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is tired. Phil is stupid. Or, he’s stupid because he’s tired, or he’s tired because he’s stupid, and he’s not really sure which one it is anymore. </p>
<p>He doesn’t remember anymore when he started counting small luxuries in terms of meals. The food bank has meat sometimes, but he can’t cook it, so he leaves it for the mothers at the food pantry that glare at him because he doesn’t look homeless, doesn’t look like someone who should be trespassing in their aisles filled with boxes of Kraft mac and cheese and chicken broth and if they’re lucky, a box or two of fancy risotto or rice pilaf. He doesn’t know how to tell them that they don’t look homeless either, that they look nice, and clean, and perfectly employable - just like he does. </p>
<p>The one where for once, Clint Barton gets to be the guardian angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a homeless!Phil conversation on Tumblr last week. Plot by dustbear, and porn by AdamantSteve, as usual.
> 
> Some dubcon-ish trigger warnings in the end notes.

Clint works at the library, and he likes it, mostly. He works in the children’s section, and his days are filled with the boisterous laughter of kids, and a few well placed admonishments towards the parents that have to be informed that the library is not a free day care. But, there isn’t much to look at at this branch, mostly filled with college students(too young, he’s not a perv) and senior citizens(he’s not that kind of perv either). And besides, his section is mostly filled with moms and their kids(the moms are cute, but he bats for the other team) - but that’s okay, because he didn’t become a librarian in order to improve his dating life.

But, when a man in a perfect suit, carrying an old leather briefcase(the sort that looks like it has been passed down for a couple generations), walks in to use the computers, he can’t help but stare. He looks, of course, but not too much, because obviously this man is too good for him.

The man sits at the tables for hours, surrounded by piles of books, jotting down notes on a legal pad, his wire rimmed glasses perched casually on his nose. He leaves when Clint is recommending books similar to Roald Dahl’s Matilda to a small girl reading several grades past her level, so Clint is left with nothing except a hope that he’ll return.

The man does return, and he becomes a bit of a fixture. Sometimes, he checks books out, thick scholarly things that Clint doesn’t catch the titles of, but he usually stands in the line that Natasha works, which is understandable, because that is the normal check out line and Natasha is a pretty girl.

Finally, Clint’s curiosity gets the better of him, and he slips behind the counter after the man leaves.

“I know what you’re going to ask me, his name is Phil.” Natasha says.

“Oh.” Clint says, because yes, that is exactly what he was going to ask.

Phil comes back every day, and it’s been a month since he’s started coming to the library, and Clint decides that he’s going to have to speak to the man soon, because he’s starting to really develop a stupid crush on the man, which is just ridiculous because he knows absolutely nothing about him. Tomorrow, he promises himself. Tomorrow, he will speak to Phil.

But, the next day, the man - well, Phil now - shows up, and he’s just wearing the suit pants, and his shirt is unbuttoned and rolled up to the sleeves, and there’s no tie. For the first time, Clint notices that the man limps a little, favouring his right side. Clint wants to ask, but he doesn’t because he’s trying to be polite. He notices that the man’s got about a 10 o’ clock shadow on his face, which is unusual for Phil, who always looks so perfectly neat, but he disappears into the library bathroom for fifteen minutes, and when he emerges, he’s clean shaven again. Clint gets Natasha to switch out with him so he can be at the checkout counter when Phil looks ready to leave, but Phil doesn’t check out any books today, just leaves with his briefcase and his eyes downcast.

Phil doesn’t come back for a week, and Clint is worried, but the library records say that Phil’s been returning his books via the overnight drop box. But, the next time Clint catches sight of Phil, he doesn’t look anything like the man in the suit. He’s in worn camouflage pants, and an old shirt that reads ARMY on it and he looks tired and worn, and he falls asleep at the computer station he’s booked for the afternoon.

He wants to say a lot of things, ask if Phil is okay, ask him if he needs anything, but the first words out of his mouth as he lightly taps the man on his shoulder are “Excuse me, sir? We have patrons waiting to use this station.”

Phil is apologetic, scrambles to his feet, and is gone before Clint can offer him an empty study room. He’s left his briefcase on the ground, under the table, and Clint tries to catch up with him outside, but Phil has disappeared.

Clint looks at the briefcase for what feels like minutes, trying to find out something - anything - about Phil. He considers picking the lock, but files that notion away immediately. He’s not extremely adept at people, but he does know that the first thing you do about a person that you’re interested in is not commit a gross invasion of their privacy.

“Phil left this.” Clint says, sliding the briefcase under the counter.

“The man in the suit that borrows legal books?”

“Yes? I hope he comes back. I mean, so we can return it.”

Natasha sighs in his direction, before tapping a few keys on her computer and dialing a number on the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Coulson? This is Natasha, from the library. No, no, you don’t have any late fees. We’re pretty sure you left your briefcase here, though?”

 

***

Phil is tired. Phil is stupid. Or, he’s stupid because he’s tired, or he’s tired because he’s stupid, and he’s not really sure which one it is anymore.

He doesn’t remember anymore when he started counting small luxuries in terms of meals. His cellphone’s plan is twenty breakfast burritos a month, from the taco truck that stops outside the public library in the mornings. His P.O Box, and his dry cleaning combined is meat. He doesn’t buy meat anymore. The food bank has meat sometimes, but he can’t cook it without a kitchen, so he leaves it for the mothers at the food pantry that glare at him because he doesn’t look homeless, doesn’t look like someone who should be trespassing in their aisles filled with boxes of Kraft mac and cheese and chicken broth and if they’re lucky, a box or two of fancy risotto or rice pilaf. He doesn’t know how to tell them that they don’t look homeless either, that they look nice, and clean, and perfectly employable - just like he does. He’s seen fights break out over the fancy box of risotto. He fills his bag with off-brand chili, which is actually still pretty good when unheated, and contains two hundred and ten calories per can, which is more than the off brand Spaghetti-O’s, which is only a hundred and eighty calories per can. Mostly, it’s peanut butter sandwiches, because bread and peanut butter are always in stock at the pantry, and two slices of wheat bread with two tablespoons of peanut butter is almost two hundred and fifty calories.

A double cheeseburger from McDonalds is four hundred and forty calories. He refuses to eat them for the first month, because he’s just not that type of homeless person. Not yet. He has a bachelor’s degree in history, and two and a half years of law school under his belt. It’s a stupid piece of dignity he’s holding on to, because it’s not as if he hasn’t eaten at McDonalds before. But, he’s an Army veteran. He knows how to cook. McDonalds is a guilty pleasure, not a necessity. He’s not going to eat at McDonalds.

He remembers the day he breaks. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and perfect even in late fall, and he’s just gotten his paycheck from Pepper. Pepper thinks that he’s doing her a huge favour, agreeing to take on some research on the side because she can’t afford a full time paralegal to help out with her practice. He’s lying to her. She thinks that he’s just taken some time off to study for the bar, that he still has a large savings account stuffed with money from the law school assistantship and summers clerking for the judge. She thinks he has health insurance. He’s been lying to Pepper, because he has to, because he’s not one of them, not really.

A week ago, he’d gone to a potluck at Pepper’s place. He didn’t want to, but one appearance every two weeks or so kept his friends from asking questions. He brought deviled eggs, because the food pantry had pre-boiled eggs, and mayonnaise, and he’s kept small packets of salt and pepper and mustard around. At Pepper’s apartment, he piped on the insides of the deviled eggs with a pastry tip(Pepper’s - her kitchen is surprisingly well equipped for someone he doesn’t cook) and smiles congenially when Pepper compliments his skill. The eggs are a hit and even Tony Stark declares that they’re the best deviled eggs he’s ever had. Pepper asks for the recipe, and Phil tells her, but doesn’t mention that it might not work as well with fresh organic eggs from Whole Foods, because they’re much harder to peel. When Pepper makes everyone takes leftovers home, he made sure to protest, saying that he hardly had space in his fridge, even as he loaded up chicken and rice into one of Pepper’s Tupperware containers(three dinners!).

The paycheck this week is short, and it’s only a hundred and fifty dollars, because Pepper just got a new intern, and he only had a few hours of work to bill her for this week. The weekly math is easy. Thirty dollars for his 7 day unlimited subway pass. Thirty dollars for dry cleaning($10 for the suit, $2 for five shirts). Three dollars for a load of laundry at the laundromat. Thirty dollars for his cellphone bill, which he has to pay this month. His P.O. Box is prepaid through next month, thank goodness. Ten dollars to print and mail his resumes at the library, but this week he could probably mail out fewer of them. Forty dollars at the YMCA and his locker rental there, also due this week, and it’s already the rate with the financial assistance built in. He adds it up, but he doesn’t need arithmetic to tell him that there isn’t much left for food.

He buys two double cheeseburgers at McDonalds, because it costs only two dollars. Almost nine hundred calories for two dollars. He doesn’t sleep that night, not because he’s hungry, but because it’s cold, and he can’t stop thinking that he’s one of those people now. He has been, for a while.

He doesn’t bother with the suit the next time he goes to the library. He’s one of them now, so why bother? Why would he bother fooling himself? He’s not a law student. He’s not a man in a nice suit. He’s just an underemployed veteran who sleeps on the A-Train with a tie on and a briefcase filled with toiletries so he just looks like a lawyer working a late night. He sleeps in chunks of an hour and forty minutes - 207th St in Manhattan to Far Rockaway in Queens, and back again - every night, and sometimes the subway smells like the real homeless, the grizzled men in layers that smell like urine and old food and he’s not one of them, he can’t be. Except, he is now, holding the greasy wrapper in his hand, edging his tongue out to lick the last bits of sticky processed cheese and relish off the paper.

He knows that he looks tired when he claims the computer station at the library, but he tries to smile at the pretty redhead at the checkout desk that has helped him find a book or two before. His job search today is cursory. They can hire him, they can not hire him, he doesn’t care. He know he’s old, too much so to be appealing, with an awkward limp too bad for manual labour, and a PTSD diagnosis that probably made potential employers nervous that he’d shoot up an office or something(he won’t - he was at Walter Reed for six months. They fixed things.).

He doesn’t know how he falls asleep, but he’s reading an WebMD article on depression, reassuring himself that he is not depressed, because his life really is genuinely shitty and it’s perfectly reasonably to be pissed off about it, and then he’s just dreaming of nothing but darkness, and it’s the best dream he’s had in a long time.

He’s glad that it’s the librarian from the children’s section that wakes him up. He’s glad that all the man says is that he needs to vacate the computer section, and not something cloying and filled with pity like “Are you okay?” or “What’s wrong?” Still, it’s instinct that propels him out of the chair and out of the library, but he can apologize tomorrow. He’ll go back, and apologize, and make up an excuse about having spent a long day at work, and the children’s librarian will stop staring at him like he’s one of those people.

 

***

“Look, about yesterday. I’m very sorry. You surprised me, that’s all. Thank you for holding on to my briefcase.” Phil says, managing to startle Clint, who is busy sorting a pile of children’s board books into the proper shelves. Phil is back in suit pants, Clint notices, still without a tie, but his white shirt is pressed and clean and rolled up to his elbows again, which distracts Clint a bit because the man has very nice arms.

“No worries, man.” Clint says, watching Phil’s fingers tap a staccato beat on the handle of his briefcase. “Are you military or something?”

Phil smiles. “I used to be. I just - ran low on laundry, you know?” he jokes, and Clint senses something oddly nervous behind Phil’s face.

“Dude, I’m low on laundry like...every week.” Clint laughs. “So, can I help you with your...research stuff or something? What do you do anyway?” It might be too many questions, Clint thinks, but he’s been bottling it up for a while.

Phil furrows his forehead a bit before answering. “Legal research. I’m sort of a freelance paralegal.”

Clint has a question, about why a paralegal - that’s a good job, right? - doesn’t just have their own laptop, but his better judgement considers it an impolite question because he’s already got some pretty good suspicions of what’s going on. He doesn’t really want to believe it, though, He’s never met one that looked like Phil, even with his own time spent on the streets, before things started working out better for him. Phil doesn’t look like a kid with sun-brown skin and stringy sun-bleached hair, or a bearded man wrapped up in blankets screaming at the moon, or a mother and her too-skinny baby on her even skinnier frame. Phil looks like someone who has friends, who knows how to navigate the system, who could get help if he wanted it.

“My computer died a while ago. I just haven’t bothered to get a new one, and I have to come here to do all my research anyway...” Phil starts to explain.

Ah, what the hell. Clint has never gotten anywhere with not being brave. And Phil has nice eyes, and arms, and a tiny crinkle at the side of his eyes that Clint finds irrepressibly cute.

“My shift’s nearly over. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Phil’s reaction is instantaneous and perhaps a bit too angry. “I don’t need a cup of coffee!” he answers harshly, pursing his lips.

Clint swallows as his suspicions are confirmed. “I don’t need coffee either, I was trying to ask you out on a date.”

“Oh.” Phil says, blinking owlishly. “I - um.”

“Or tea. Or orange juice. Or anything, really.” Clint offers.

“I’m - I’m sorry. No. I’m not really in a good place in my life to date right now.” Phil says, fidgeting with his briefcase again.

“Okay.” Clint says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t very professional of me.” He tries to grin brightly. “See you tomorrow, though?”

“Yes.” Phil answers, nodding at the stack of books he’s got piled up in his remaining arm. “I have books I need to return.”

Clint watches as Phil walks out, his limp a little more pronounced now. He glances over at Natasha by the checkout desk, and she’s watching too, her eyes squinting in concern even as she starts typing into her workstation. By the time he makes it over to the front desk, she is nodding, confirming his thoughts.

“His library card address is a P.O. Box, not an physical address.” Natasha says, before he has a chance to ask the question. Clint nods.

Natasha sighs, running a hand over her face. “Look, I understand. You know I get it, as much as you do. But you can’t just confront him about it, okay? It’s important that he - that he gets to show you the kind of person that he wants you to think he is.”

“I never had that much pride.” Clint answers. He’d approached homelessness with anger, not quiet resignation and dignity. He’d stolen his food, ruthlessly protected his turf with his fists and a knife. Natasha had been his friend then too, and she was even better at it than he was. Young girls like Natasha weren’t safe on the streets, but Natasha was red hot rage and conniving lies and the sweetest, most heartbreaking, smiles. She’d gotten an older man to pay her way through college when she was only sixteen, and Clint used to stay in her dorm whenever her roommate was out of town. As far as Clint knew, she never even had sex with the man.

He’d been arrested around the time Natasha turned eighteen, after a car robbery gone wrong, and that was three square meals and a roof over his head, so he pled guilty(also, he was actually guilty), and he got his GED and then a BA on the taxpayer’s dime, and he didn’t feel bad about it at all. When he got out, Natasha had an apartment, and far more money than he’d ever expected either of them to ever have. She wouldn’t tell him where it was from, but he wasn’t too good for dirty money, as long as it was money, which it was. So, he got a new set of identification documents, and an MA in Library and Information Sciences, and Natasha got him a job at the library.

The point was, he knew what homeless people were like, and he knew how they behaved, alternately desperate and angry and depressed, and Phil didn’t behave like them. Phil wore a tailored suit, Phil looked like he owned a house in the suburbs and had 2.5 kids and a golden retriever. Phil was dignified. Phil was perfect.

“It’s harder for him, I think.” Natasha says, her voice carefully moderated to not betray any of her own emotions. “I want to help him too, but what he needs is kindness and understanding, not charity shoved in his face.”

Clint sighs. “Are there any rules about sleeping with him? Because I really want to do that, and he’s really no less hot for being homeless.”

“You are incorrigible.” Natasha declares, shoving him back towards the direction of the children’s section.


	2. Chapter 2

Three dollars and forty cents is a lot to pay for coffee, but Phil does it anyway, so he can be waiting with Pepper’s preferred coffee order in hand when she slides into the seat next to him(skinny vanilla latte with a shot of espresso). His own cup is just hot water, with a tea bag he pocketed from the seminar yesterday, but it’s dark and warm, and Pepper won’t ask him about it. He tips the barista a dollar, because he has to, because she is a student and she needs the money too, and she didn’t snark about giving him a cup of free hot water.

Pepper takes her coffee gratefully, unwrapping her long scarf as she takes the folder that Phil is handing out towards her(6 hours of research. $150 dollars.).

“How are you doing, Phil?” Pepper asks, as she always does, although there is a strange edge to her voice today.

“Great. I’m great.” Phil says, as he always does, but he’s used to this by now - to sounding okay when everything is not okay, so he’s pretty sure he sounds the same.

“How’s the research for your thesis going?” Pepper presses.

“Good. I’m just really tired, you know?”

“Studying for the bar?” she continues. “I know it must be really hard. I mean, it _is_ really hard.”

“Yeah, it’s going well. I feel almost ready, though.”

Phil doesn’t ignore the fact that Pepper’s questions are more pointed than they tend to be. She shifts nervously. sipping at her coffee, before speaking again.

“Look, I know you’re busy, but - ” she stops.

“But?” Phil prompts.

“I’m really swamped at work right now, and I could really use a lot more research help, and I know you don’t have much time to help me out, but I need maybe...twenty hours of research help this week?” Pepper says, looking nervous. “And if you can’t do it, that’s totally okay, but I could really, really use the help.”

“Didn’t you just get an intern?”

“I fired him, he was awful and commented on the length of my skirts.”

“It is always an unwise decision to sexually harass your boss.” Phil agrees.

“So, can you do it? I hate to sound so desperate, but I’m in trial all of next week and I won’t have time - “ Pepper blurts, and Phil thinks that she’s explaining a lot more than she tends to.

“Yes, of course.” Phil says, because twenty hours of work for Pepper is five hundred dollars, which means that he can pay the hospital for his emergency room visit a year ago(he still had an apartment then, and a clerkship, and he was still in school), and his credit card as well, and perhaps even get himself a nice dinner. Perhaps he could ask Clint out to dinner. The thought surprises him even as he thinks it, and he promptly files it away because he can’t let himself be soothed into thinking that he can have a normal life right now, with dating cute boys and nice dinners.

He focuses on the list of topics that Pepper is rattling off, starting to copy them down on his legal pad in neat handwriting.

“Don’t bother, I already wrote them down.” Pepper says, digging in her enormous purse and placing a stack of legal pads down on the table. The one on top has the list of topics that she needs researched. The remaining five pads are blank.

“Why are you bringing me a stack of legal pads?” Phil asks.

“They’re really heavy, and I don’t want to carry them back to the office. I have to walk across Central Park, and they’re like...twenty pounds. Can you just keep them?” Pepper asks. “I have to run to a deposition, Phil. Thank you so much, I owe you a million favours.”

Phil sighs when Pepper leaves. Pepper is not a great actress. And he knows that Pepper knows now, or has a pretty good idea, at least. Pepper is smart. Pepper graduated top of her class at Columbia University, and Phil knew he couldn’t possibly fool her for long.

But Pepper was raised WASP, and educated by the finest private institutions, and surrounded by lawyers and venture capitalists and stockbrokers every day, and Pepper does not know what to do with a homeless friend whose dignity she is apparently still trying to preserve.

Outside the coffee shop, a man looks up from where he is bundled in his sleeping bag under a pile of smelly blankets. A ratty cardboard sign sits by his feet, next to a tin cup, the ink smeared and faded with time.

“Spare some change, mister?” the man asks.

Phil stops. He looks at the man; looks directly in his eyes, which are tired and resigned and empty. “I’m sorry.” he says. “I don’t have any spare change today. I hope you have a good afternoon, though.”

The man smiles a toothless smile. “It’s okay. Thanks for stopping. It’s nice not being invisible, even for just a couple seconds.”

Phil swallows down a lump in his throat as he walks away. He’s walked past this man, many times. He’s dropped his loose change in that tin cup, but he’s never really looked at the person sitting there before. He’s never stopped to say hello or good afternoon, never bothered to pause his busy day to acknowledge a homeless man’s humanity.

It would take no effort at all to just tell Pepper, to let her invite him into her spare room, to let her order take out every night, to let her pull strings and get him set up as a legal assistant somewhere, possibly a place that wouldn't have hired him based on his resume alone but would on Pepper’s good word. It would be easy, to let Pepper care, to let her coddle him, respond to his homelessness the same way one would respond to a bad break up, with pints of fancy ice cream and reruns of Melrose Place. Except, it’s not the same thing.

Because, Pepper knows charity in the distant way that upper class women from upper class families with law degrees from Columbia University and summers spent at Martha’s Vineyard do - the way that involves attending a minimum of five charity galas during the holiday season, and the cheques written out to violence prevention and cancer research charities from the Potts Foundation, and perhaps a weekend every year spent volunteering at a soup kitchen. Pepper knows charity, they all do, but they don’t get it. They won’t understand why he chooses to pay for dry cleaning rather than eat, won’t understand why he still has a cell phone, won’t understand why he won’t just crash on their couches, eat their food, let them be charitable towards him.

Because, if he admits it, he won’t ever be able to be Phil Coulson, law student and military veteran, ever again. He’ll just be Phil Coulson, the man that didn’t work hard enough, didn’t try hard enough, and ended up homeless. He’ll be the guy that dropped out of law school, that couldn’t keep it together long enough to matter. He’ll just be another old vet, and he’s seen them, seen them on the subway, pulling their wheeled luggage along behind them with their shoulders slumped over and their eyes unseeing. They know his secret, the old vets that fought in Vietnam and Korea and Kuwait and Afghanistan, because no lawyer sleeps on the subway every day, but they respect him and he respects them.

And he needs that, the respect, because it’s all he has left. And he needs his friends to respect him. He needs Pepper to respect him. He won’t invite a homeless person into her home. He can’t do that to his best friend.

***

“So, you can tell me to buzz off if you want.” Clint’s voice starts from above Phil’s head, before dropping down into the chair across from him. “But - I wanted you to know that the library is hosting a free MCLE at lunch, and there are still a couple spots open. And, I know you said you weren’t really looking to date anyone, and that’s not what I’m trying to do, but I know that paralegals need to have so many MCLE credits every year and I thought that maybe if you haven’t gotten all of yours done yet, we could go and check it out.”

Phil looks up after Clint finishes his torrent of a sentence. The worst part of the past few months has been the people that have looked at him with pity, even worse than the women at the food pantry who glare at him like he shouldn’t be eying the frozen salmon in the freezer aisle because he probably doesn’t need it as much as they do. It’s horrible when the elderly Korean woman at the laundromat watches him pay in loose change, instead of the credit card he used to have, not because she’s angry at having to count the change in quarters and dimes, but because she’s been discounting his dry cleaning bill by 50% without saying a word - and that hurts like hell because she deserves the money too, because she works hard, and supports four children(the oldest is going to school at NYU, and she’s paying for all of it). It’s horrible when the nice boy at the YMCA pulls up his account, notes that he’s enrolled under the financial assistance program and points him at the list of soup kitchens serving that night, tacked up neatly on the bulletin board.

He’s just not ready for that, not ready to stand in line in the cold, not ready to be poor and homeless in public for a plate of beans and rice and steamed broccoli yet. 

“Um. It’s about library privacy law. I guess I didn’t ask if that would be relevant to your particular field, which I don’t know, so if you’re not into it, just ignore me because I’m just being dumb, I guess.” Clint says.

But this - this is just the children’s librarian, and he’s talking about a professional seminar, and he’s talking like Phil were just a paralegal, and not a homeless man. And he doesn’t have new work from Pepper to do, and he’s just been reading up on privacy law to keep his mind busy, and Clint is holding out a flyer about the MCLE and it says there’s a free lunch.

And, Clint is gorgeous, back lit by the morning sunlight pouring in through the library’s high windows, and he looks like the sort of man Phil could never ever have dreamed of having, even when he had a job, and a home, and a car and a life that wasn’t spent  in public libraries and food pantries and riding subway trains to nowhere in particular. But Clint is here right now, and he’s asking about going to an MCLE, a normal sort of request you’d pose to a paralegal dressed in business casual, and Phil can take that small human kindness today. And, Clint has hands that look like they hold stories, and Phil wants to hear them. And, Phil actually is hungry.  

Phil smiles, and it feels like a genuine one, for the first time in a while. “I said I wasn’t in a good place to date people, I can certainly manage to go to an professional seminar with the nice children’s librarian.”

The lunch is just a make-your-own sandwich bar, but there's turkey and roast beef and fancy cheese and fresh tomatoes, and Phil makes a sandwich and squishes it down so it doesn’t look that big. Clint makes a gigantic sandwich too, so Phil doesn’t feel too bad that he’s using twice as much meat as would be proper.

The MCLE is boring, but Clint nudges him and passes over a notepad with a tic-tac-toe grid drawn on it. They play for an hour, and no one wins, because that’s how tic-tac-toe works, but Clint looks more focused and more determined with every round and Phil can’t help but smile because Clint is gnawing at the end of his No. 2 pencil like a squirrel. And, Clint’s kind of adorable.

By the time the MCLE ends, and Clint tells him that he can book a study room for his research, which might be quieter and more comfortable than sitting out in the library proper, and also points out that there is a study room right next to the children’s section that everyone ignores because no one wants to be around screaming kids(sure, it’s a library, but still), Phil is feeling almost human again.

***

“Hey, Phil.” Clint says, letting himself into the study room where Phil is camped out, surrounded with a stack of books containing interesting interpretations of case law. He’s been building a tentative friendship with the man, over casual conversations about library matters and books and breakfast burritos(Phil has many opinions on breakfast burritos).

Phil still dresses the same every day, rotating between five shirts that Clint has come to easily recognize(he likes the blue one, with the subtle stripes).

Clint was really hoping that this would work.

“Hey. Clint. What’s up?” Phil says, looking up from his pile of books. He looks exhausted. He’s been looking a bit more exhausted every day, Clint thinks.

Clint pulls up a chair. “I’m going to a library conference next week. I need a house sitter - I have a dog, and he needs a lot of attention and he takes medication. My neighbours are great, but I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I had someone living there while I was gone, you know?”

“Hmm?” Phil says, and Clint recognizes the suspicious narrowing of Phil’s eyes, so he barrels on.

“It’s really not convenient, I live in Brooklyn. Bed-Stuy, actually. And I can’t really afford to pay much...maybe like ten bucks a day, but I have cable and there’s beer in the fridge - anyway, I’m rambling. I was wondering if you knew anyone that could maybe help out?”

Phil blinks once, stares down at the pad he’s writing on, squints in Clint’s direction and nods. “I could do it. If you can’t find anyone else, that is.”

Clint huffs a sigh of relief. “Do you want to come over tonight? You can meet Lucky and I’ll show you how to administer his meds.”

“Um. Yeah, sure.” Phil says.

“Perfect. God, Phil, you’re a life saver. Don’t eat before you come over, I’m cooking dinner.” Clint scribbles down his address on a piece of paper and watches Phil tuck it into his pocket before leaving Phil to his work.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Natasha says, when he joins her at the front desk. Clint doesn't know what he’s doing, not really, but he can try.

***

Clint cooks dinner, and it is spaghetti with sauce out of a jar, which is simple and more delicious than the cans of Chef Boyardee's that Phil eats about seven times a week. They're at the end of dinner, and Lucky is resting his large, goofy head on Phil's thigh, his large brown eyes begging for a meatball. And Phil feels like a person again for the first time in months, having dinner with a charming almost-stranger, talking about his embarrassing childhood love of Captain America.

Clint pours wine, although Phil only takes polite sips and lets Clint finish most of the bottle himself. Clint talks about the library and tells a story about a kid who puked on a first edition of Leaves of Grass once, and Phil - he loves it. He wants it. He wants this, this simple life of weekday dinners, a floppy dog that’s somewhere between a golden retriever and a yeti, and a kind man with laughter in his eyes.

Clint is perfect. Which is why he can't do this, can't let himself believe that this life is within his reach, because it isn't. Better to end it before the illusion shatters, before Clint uncovers all his secrets and ends up disgusted and angry. He looks at Clint, tries to remember the way the way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he laughs, the way his hand pauses a little too long when handing over the parmesan cheese - he tries to burn the happy image into his memory. He'll go to a different library tomorrow, but perhaps this thought could keep him warm tonight.

“Clint, I can’t house sit for you.” Phil says, not ignoring the way that the words catch in his throat. "Thank you for dinner, though."

“What? Why? You’re perfect, Lucky loves you, I really need the help. Honestly.” Clint's voice is happy and slurred.

“You barely know me. You probably shouldn’t trust me.” Phil says, already trying to get up from the table. A good guest would stay to help with the dishes, but the room suddenly feels small and he just wants to leave. He'll go to the Midtown Library tomorrow. He doesn't like it quite as much, but Clint doesn't work there.

Clint reaches out, placing a gentle, but insistent, hand on his arm. “Lucky is a good judge of character.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Phil, I don’t care. I really don’t.”

“There’s something I have to tell you.” Phil insists.

“Phil, please believe me when I say that I don’t care. I really don’t.” Clint says. He looks earnest.

“I’m homeless.” Phil admits. He realizes perhaps, that it’s the first time he’s ever said the words, truly vocalized that he was one of them. He’s homeless. He doesn’t have a home. He doesn’t know when he’ll have a home again. He stares at his empty plate. Perhaps Clint will give him a Tupperware full of leftovers before politely showing him the door. Perhaps he would be condescending, and show him how to do a Google search for homeless shelters in the area, as if he didn’t know how to do a goddamn Google search.

Clint sighs. “Okay. I already knew that. Seriously, I don’t care.”

Phil’s heart drops. “You knew? Is that why you’ve been bringing me lunch? Is that why you’re having me house sit?” He says, but his voice is more resigned than angry. “I don’t need...your charity.”

Clint’s hand is still on Phil’s arm, and it presses down harder.  “I was homeless for four years. It’s been over a decade, but - anyway, this isn’t charity, it’s just...humanity.”

Phil blinks. Clint was homeless too? Clint, who is happy and gentle and kind and funny, who is smart and competent and well dressed and -

“How did you get out of it?” Phil asks.

“I went to jail for stealing a car.” Clint chuckles, but he doesn’t sound proud about it. Just - somewhat resigned.

“But you’re a children’s librarian. You work for the city. There are rules about convicted felons and that sort of thing.”

“I have a set of forged documentation. On paper, I’m a model citizen.” Clint says wryly. “Anyway, that’s my secret, and you’re the only other person who knows. I barely know you, and I’m trusting you with the biggest secret I have. Do you think that maybe you could try trusting me with yours?”

Phil doesn’t know what to say for a bit, so he doesn’t. Finally, he forces himself to nod. “When you went to jail, you probably had a public defender, right?”

“He wasn’t very good.”

“Let me - let me look at your old case files. Maybe there’s something missing, maybe we can get the case reopened.”

Clint chuckles. “Phil, I stole the car. I mean, I actually stole the car. I pled guilty because I was guilty. And I've served the time already. Obviously.”

“Still. Let me review it. I mean, I’m just a law student - and I’m not even a law student anymore, but it’s either that or you let me do your housecleaning or something.”

“Oh god, you’re not cleaning my house. I’m an adult. I can clean my own house. Fine. I’ll give you the case number. It’s under my old name, Clinton Francis Barton.” Clint stands up, a little wobbly, and starts cleaning up the dishes himself.

“You didn’t change your name very much.”

“Not much, but enough.”

“Do you even need a house sitter?” Phil asks, bringing his own plate to the sink.

“No.” Clint admits, when they’ve returned to the empty table, his hands clasped in front of him. “But I want you to stay.”

“Why are you doing this?” Phil finally demands, because despite everything that might have happened in his past - why is Clint so nice to a stranger? Phil has worked with people who’ve been through tough times, and more often than not, they come out hard. They come out more demanding than anyone else, ready to deliver screeds about bootstraps and hard work and persistence. From his experience, the people that have been through the wringer themselves are also often the first to forget.

“Can I be honest?” Clint asks, and there it is back again, that gleam in his eyes that is equal parts wicked and kind. “The first time I saw you, I just had the biggest crush on you and I really wanted to just get you in bed. And er - I still do. You’re just kind of my type, that’s all. But now I’ve talked to you and I know you, and I...I really like you, okay? That’s it. I like you.”

Phil clears his throat. It’s certainly the first time he’s been propositioned, but he doesn’t have much use for dignity in this room. And Clint is attractive, and nice, and were circumstances different, he would love to - well, he’d love to have Clint fuck him into the pillows and suck his cock until he came screaming. But circumstances aren’t different, and Phil isn’t a proud man here, and he is a desperate man, and he doesn’t have anything else to lose, not here in this room.

And he’s Clint’s type, and Clint has a couch to sleep on, and Clint can keep a secret.

Phil takes off his tie.

In some ways, it's easier than it would be were it a regular hook up. Well - a lot of ways. Under normal circumstances, Phil would be a bit nervous, hesitant over making a move. He'd wait to make sure he was receiving all the right cues before leaning forward and putting a hand on Clint's knee.

This is simpler. He has a goal, and it's not a bad one - make Clint happy. He can do that easily enough; he can barter for a warm couch and a good meal. And since it's not about mutual satisfaction, he can just slip his hand up the thigh he's brazenly placed his hand on and cup Clint's cock without any preamble. Clint makes a little sound of surprise, but he doesn't protest, and Phil isn't sure where to look so he busies himself with undoing Clint's pants. His heart is surprisingly calm, and committed to the task. His hands are far more efficient than he'd expected they would be, but Clint wears uncomplicated pants. Yeah, he can do this. He's sucked dicks before, and he's enjoyed doing it too, most of the time. This is easy.

"Come to bed?" Clint says, one hand wrapped around Phil's shoulder to stop him - to give him a chance to think about it a little bit more - but Phil isn't much in the mood to think too much about it. He looks up, and Clint's eyes are glazed and lusty and a little bit unsure, but they are pretty, all the same.

Phil pauses, before offering as enthusiastic a smile as he can muster. "Sure," he says, and the look of relief on Clint's face is out of place, but he doesn't want to dwell too much on Clint's face.

He pulls off Clint's shirt on the way, as much as to avoid Clint's kisses, which he seems determined to give even though that's probably one of those things people don't do - not in situations like this. Kissing isn't part of the deal, is it? Certainly not the sweet, hungry ones that Clint keeps on giving, all tiny nibbles and shy moans. Phil pushes him towards the bedroom, up the half-ladder, half-stairs contraption that couldn't possibly be compliant with building code, and onto the bed, although he gets pulled off balance and finds himself on the bed as well.

Phil's a pretty efficient guy, and this ought to be an efficient process, but Clint's had the best part of a bottle of wine and keeps grabbing at Phil with strong arms, and it's frightening to realise that if Clint wanted to, the floppiness brought on by the alcohol could easily turn into something forceful and angry. But Phil is sober, and he isn't hungry right now, and he can still get out of a tight spot if he has to because he is smart and he is good and he has to prove it, now more than any other time he's ever had to. Clint's hands keep pulling at Phil's shirt, trying to find their way to his skin, but Phil manages to wrench Clint's pants open and off, and then he doesn't have to worry anymore, because Clint's cock is in his mouth.

There's something strangely nice about doing something he knows he's good at, Phil thinks, as Clint gasps and starts to thicken in his mouth. He can do this and he can do it well, and it's such a relief to be useful again. Phil can do this. He's good at this. He's good _for_ this.

It's not so bad, he decides, as he moves Clint's hand from where it's trying to slide up his shirt again to the back of his neck. It's not how Phil pictured prostitution; not kneeling on the floor and reluctant subservience. No, this is fine. He can make himself believe that it is almost pleasant. He pulls off and keeps working his hand as he looks down at Clint, laid out before him with his eyes closed and his mouth open, making needy little noises. If anyone's in a position of power right now, Phil thinks, it's certainly not Clint.

But then, Clint cracks his eyes open and Phil makes the mistake of looking right at them. The filthy grin that spreads across Clint's face actually makes his heart skip unbidden. "C'mere," Clint says, the hand on Phil's neck pulling up and tugging him close for a kiss. Between Clint's strength and the angle Phil's kneeling at, he can't really resist. Clint moans into Phil's mouth once he's stroked Phil's tongue with his own. "Can taste myself on you."

Phil can't look at him after that, kissing back down Clint's body until he's back where he can finish the job. Clint tugs at him a little more but Phil's determined now, redoubling his efforts in the hopes of getting this finished. His perseverance is rewarded eventually, with Clint's fingers spasming in his hair as he comes with breathy sounds Phil knows he'd relish if the situation were different.

Phil doesn't think he's ever been so relieved at someone else's orgasm.

Clint tries to pull Phil close again afterwards, but he manages to slip out of reach before Clint can kiss him again. Clint does manage to alert Phil to the fact that he's hard with a groping hand, managing to say, "Let me get you-?" before Phil slaps his hand and jerks away.

"No! No. I'm. I'm good." Phil hadn't even realised he was hard. What does that say about him - that he'd apparently enjoyed - ?

Clint's too drunk to argue, it seems, reaching for Phil as he slips out of Clint's grasp, but not getting much further than that. "I'm going to use the bathroom?" Phil says, one foot already on the ladder. Clint's answer is incomprehensible beyond a general affirmative, but Phil thinks that perhaps he's asking to cuddle.

He stares at the couch for a minute. Some part of him wants to leave, because whores don't stay the night - but he's earned this today. A warm place, and a soft couch. He's paid for this, at least tonight. Phil lays down on the couch and turns to face the back of it, covering himself with his coat, before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Clint wakes up realizing that he has fucked it all up. He is naked, which is clue number one, he is hungover, which is clue number two and he can hear Phil in the kitchen below his lofted bedroom, which is a really obvious and holy-shit-he’s-really-fucked-it-up-now clue number three.

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and an old shirt, and pads down the stairs.

Phil isn't meeting his eyes. “I didn’t know what I could use, but I made you coffee. If you don’t mind me using your eggs, I can make french toast.” Phil says, his back turned in Clint’s direction. Which might just be a function of where the coffee pot is located, but even hungover Clint is intuitive enough to know that that is not the case.

“I don’t mind you using anything in the kitchen. Wait, that’s not what I wanted to talk about. What happened last night?”

“We made out for a bit, I gave you a blowjob, and you fell asleep. I slept on your couch. Is that alright?” Phil answers, and Clint can’t miss the undercurrent of resentment in Phil's voice. He's heard it in his own, before he'd met Natasha. Before he'd learned to pickpocket well dressed people and steal food from people who didn't need it, he'd learned to barter the only thing a pretty young boy had to offer. And Phil had - oh, goddammit.

“What? No! It’s not alright!” Clint yelps, because god, no, he can’t be like them.

“I can leave. I’m sorry.”

“No! Fuck. Wait. Give me a second.” Clint takes a couple deep breaths, and takes several gulps of hot coffee, buying himself time to compose his thoughts. "Look, I'm a fuck up. If you were in my place, none of this would have happened. You would have taken me in, and taken care of me and I would have listened to you because I lack a stable influence in my life and you have a way about you that makes people want to obey, am I correct?"

Phil doesn't move closer to the door, so Clint takes the liberty of continuing. "And last night shouldn't have happened. You believed you owe me something, which you don't. I don't know how you misinterpreted my telling you I liked you into a request for a blowjob, but I don't want that!"

"You didn't want a blowjob?"

"I wanted to go to bed with an attractive man I've been crushing on for weeks, yes, but I did not want that!"

"You don't want me?"

"I do! Just not...just not like that."

"Just not homeless, you mean?"

"For fuck's sake, do you know how dense you're being!" Clint yells. "I don't want you to feel obligated! I don't want you to suck my fucking cock just because I said you could crash on my couch!" He slams his hand down on the countertop, accidentally knocking his half empty mug to the ground which makes a particularly loud crashing noise against the cold concrete floor of his loft. Behind him, Lucky lets out a sad whine.

“I don’t want to fucking have sex with you.” Clint grumbles, kneeling down to pick up the pieces of the broken mug. “Not like this.”

Phil doesn't say anything. Phil is still standing next to the kitchen counter, his hands curled around the coffee mug. It's still full, so Clint can see the liquid rippling as Phil's hands tremble. Phil looks small standing there, quiet and shivering, even though Clint knows that the apartment is heated to seventy degrees, because he doesn't like the cold either.

"Phil?" Clint ventures, not knowing whether to touch or stay away.

The voice that responds is reedy and thin and out of breath. "Please don't yell at me." Phil whimpers, and Clint has done some reading on how to deal with this sort of thing, especially with veterans, but his instinct kicks in instead and he's wrapping Phil in his arms in less than two seconds. Clint is grateful that Phil's reflexes aren't to punch him in the face. Phil sobs against his shoulder, large heaving sobs that Clint doesn't know how to respond to. He rubs his hands over Phil's back, feeling thin scars even over the shirt, long scars that feel like torture and far more pain than any human should have to endure.

"Your name is Phil Coulson." Clint says. "I'm Clint Barton. You're in my apartment in Bed Stuy. It's eight in the morning."

"I'm not having a panic attack." Phil whispers into his damp shoulder. "I'm just so tired. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing." Clint says, rubbing small circles into Phil's back, trying to keep him upright. "Please. I'm really fucking sorry, Phil."

Phil pulls away, and slumps backwards against the counter. He stares at the floor. "I'm just so tired. I can't do this anymore. I'm just - I'm just really, really tired."

"Can you just listen to me just once more?" Clint asks.

Phil nods.

"I have to go to work. I want you to go upstairs, and sleep. I'll be back at lunch. I'd tell you that you can eat whatever you find, but I've sort of been where you are and I had a weird complex about food for a while, so I'm going to tell you that the bagels are about to go bad, the bananas are on their last legs, and there's cream cheese, milk and orange juice in the fridge that's expiring next week and needs to be eaten." Clint swallows and takes a deep breath before saying the next thing. It might be too much of an order, but there was a time where he'd needed them too. "When I come back, I want you to still be here."

Phil nods again. Clint ushers him upstairs, and hands him a pair of old sweatpants and a shirt. Phil looks defeated as he changes, not bothering to hide or turn around much as he strips his shirt off. Clint can see the ugly stripes on Phil's back, but it isn't the time to ask and Clint can figure out the answer. Clint hasn't made his bed, because he never does, so he scrambles to straighten out and hold up the blankets for Phil, who gets under them and promptly curls up into a tight ball, squeezing his eyes closed.

Clint swallows. “I understand if you want to leave...especially after yesterday. But - but I’d really like you to consider staying.”

From under the blankets, Phil whispers a muted “okay.” 

"Get some sleep, please?" Clint says, offering Phil an awkward shoulder tap. What he really wants to do is run a hand over Phil's hair and kiss him softly on his cheek. Or, curl up behind him, fitting his body around Phil, a physical promise of protection.

But today, that can't happen, and Clint has only gotten to the bottom of the stairs when he hears Phil's breathing even out, followed by a deep snore.

***

Phil wakes up slowly, which is notable only because he hasn't woken up slowly in a while, groggy and dazed and blinking blearily at the lofted ceiling that is most certainly not the ceiling of the A Train. It hurts to pull himself from the soft bed, his joints aching as he lowers himself to the ground. He's immediately conscious of several things, the first and foremost being that his knee is acting up worse than usual and - he sneezes - and no, he can't think about getting sick right now. He remembers Clint telling him to go to bed, and not much else.

It is dark outside, but the lights are on. He makes it down the stairs, pushing aside his sudden bout of nausea. Clint looks up from where he is bundled up with a book on the couch, which is more blanketed and pillowed than the last time he saw it.

"Hi. How are you?" Clint asks.

"I thought you were going to work?" Phil manages weakly.

"It's midnight Friday. You slept for fourteen hours."

"Oh." Phil says, continuing to stand dumbly at the foot of the stairs. He sneezes, immediately reaching to wipe his nose on his arm before he realizes that he really should go because Clint is glaring at him.

"You look like you're about to bolt, so I feel it necessary to inform you that I have a very grumpy resting face." Clint says, pointing at the kitchen counter. "Sit."

Phil isn't sure whether Clint was talking to him or Lucky, who has already scrambled to the foot of the counter to look expectantly at his food bowl, but there is something definite and calming about the order, so he goes. Clint moves around him, quietly pouring a glass of orange juice which he sets down in front of Phil as definitively as one can set down a glass of what is quite certainly Sunny D.

Phil hears a can open, and the stove light, before Clint settles himself on the other stool.

"You're getting sick. I'm a librarian, not a doctor, but I suspect it's because you've actually gotten some rest, and your body’s been trying to hold itself together so much lately that now it's catching up with lost time." Clint says.

"I don't think that's how it works." Phil tries to protest, but there is no harshness in his voice.

"Regardless." Clint points at the pills in front of him. "Nyquil. Tylenol. The Walgreens generic brand of Sudafed. You have a cold, at minimum." He looks at the pills before considering it for a second and reaching over for the cardboard packages instead. "Sorry. Here, these are sealed."

Phil is tempted to just trust Clint, take the pills that are obviously cold medication, but he finds himself wrenching open the impossible sealed plastic package of Nyquil instead. He does take the medicine though, swallowing it down with a gulp of orange-ish juice, acutely aware of the sore throat he seems to have acquired as well. He's not too proud for small kindnesses, not today when he can barely feel his nasal passages and his head aches the dull ache of a promised migraine.

"I want to open a bookstore." Clint says.

Phil looks up, because that is not a currently useful piece of information.

"I'm going to need a lot of help with getting it set up correctly - navigating all the paperwork, figuring out employment law, that sort of thing. You won't just let me help you, will you? So I'm telling you that you have skills that I genuinely need. Please let me take care of you now so you can help me out later?"

Phil is too tired to argue. "Okay."

Clint huffs a pleasant little relieved noise. Phil watches as Clint continues to putter around the kitchen, pouring the contents of the pot on the stove into a large bowl. His nose is stuffy, but he can still smell the warmth of the chicken broth.

"It's just from a can. I'm not really much of a cook." Clint says, sliding the bowl and a spoon over to him.

Phil stares at the bowl of soup for what feels like forever before some animal instinct kicks in, and he finds himself devouring the bowl of now lukewarm Progresso’s Chicken Noodle as if it were the best thing he’s ever eaten in the last fourteen hours. Which is true, as it is the only thing he’s actually eaten in the last fourteen hours.

When he finally looks up, the spoon clattering back into the empty bowl, Clint is not staring at him as Phil had expected him to be, but has moved over to the couch to bundle himself back up in a blanket. He smiles when he notices that Phil’s stopped eating, and sets his book aside.

“Okay, now that you no longer look like you’re going to fall over dead, here’s the house rules. First, Lucky does not eat human food, except for pizza, which I can’t seem to stop him from eating. But please try not to feed him pizza either.” Clint holds out a hand, with a Captain America key ring and a spare key attached. “The key should be self explanatory.”

Phil gapes a little, because Clint is barrelling ahead, talking to him as if he were just a new roommate, and not a homeless stranger that has stumbled into his life. He wants to say a few things, something between gratefulness and suspicion and disbelief, but the only words that come out are - “Aren’t you afraid I’ll steal your wallet or something?”

Clint pauses his speech somewhere around a rant about the neighbour’s music levels and stares for a second. And then he laughs, a loud belly laugh that is a little bit infectious despite everything, and Phil finds the edges of his mouth starting to curl up.

“Steal my wallet? You?” Clint gasps, wiping his eyes as he wheezes a little bit. “Phil. You don’t know how to steal a wallet. You’re a good dude.”

A good dude. The way Clint says it is so flippant, but so certain, as if the notion of Phil’s innate goodness were unquestionable, and of course he wouldn't have any idea how to steal a wallet(It's true. He doesn't.). It’s an odd balm, but it works - he’s a good dude, Phil thinks, and in a world that he doesn’t quite understand anymore, that’s something that he can still strive to be.

“Trash day is on Wednesday, and we can split up the chores, but if you want to be nice about it, I hate doing the dishes most of all.” Clint wanders back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. “I’m an archer, and there’s a target set up on that wall there, so if you happen to be chilling out on the fire escape, please be very obvious when coming back in, so you aren’t startled by an arrow flying past your head.”

Phil feels like protesting further, but Clint has obviously moved on from that conversation and is very firmly rooted in a conversation about toilet paper replenishing and the intricacies of the garbage disposal, which is apparently prone to getting clogged.

“And I’ll be covering groceries until your employment situation is a bit more stable, but if we’re running low on anything, please stick a post-it note on the fridge. That’s it, I think. Got all that?” Clint ends, while simultaneously rummaging in the cupboard for teabags.

Phil blinks. There’s something calming about Clint’s rapid fire tone, something like a rock to hold on to. Clint says he’s a roommate, and that is suddenly true, because Clint is certain and strong and Phil is too tired to be proud today. Next to him, Lucky wet noses a solid furry head under his hand. “Yeah.” Phil says, “I got it.”

Clint pours two cups of tea, placing one insistently in front of Phil. “Great. Here, it’s chamomile, because I’m pretty sure you’re wide awake now, but you won’t be when the Nyquil catches up to you. Do you want to watch Dog Cops?” It’s not the most commanding of actions, but it’s enough.

Phil drinks the tea, and lets Clint usher him to the couch and fuss with what looks like a mountain of blankets and pillows. Dog Cops is a ridiculous show, but Clint's laughter rings out when a large German Shepherd faceplants into a shrubbery, and Phil thinks that he wouldn't mind hearing more of it. The thought is sudden when it hits him despite the fog of his cold medication - the realization that he’s actually attracted to Clint. Not the objective way that says that of course Clint is a good looking man, and anyone would be attracted to him, and not the way he’d tried to rationalize it just a night earlier. He’s attracted to Clint in the way that he used to be attracted to people, before he started burying his emotions under a layer of pride and self sufficiency and the absolute unyielding belief that he couldn’t take the time to date anyone right now, not when his life was still in shambles.

The next time Phil wakes up, he is on the couch, bathed by the bright blue light of the television and the DVR menu. He can breathe through his nose, although he is aware of the medication imposed dryness in his head, and he feels...well, he actually feels well rested. There's a fuzzy purple blanket over at least half of him, and it's soft and smells like dryer cloths, and he quickly decides that the moment he gets back on his feet, he's getting a blanket exactly like it. His next thought is the realization that it's the first time he's really thought that he would get back on his feet someday, bothered to imagine that things would get better, instead of the suffocating plodding monotone of just finding the will to live for one more day.

Next to him, a blanketed lump nudges against his thigh, and he reaches out to pet it, startled to find Clint, and not Lucky. Clint is curled up in a tight ball under the blanket, and he's quite asleep, but leans into the touch. There is a snore, and a sniffle, and a long sleeved arm automatically reaching for a drippy nose and Phil can tell that Clint's adopted his pet cold as well.

"Hey, wake up." Phil tries to shake Clint awake, grateful that Clint does groan and push himself into a sitting position.

"Oh god, I feel like ass." Clint mumbles. "Sorry dude, I didn't mean to hog your bed." Clint's bleary eyed and his hair is tousled and in some abstract shape on his head and Phil isn't sure how he ever thought that this man might have ever intended him any harm. Clint peels himself off the couch, grumbling something about a headache and being old and aching joints as he climbs up his stairs, but the last thing Phil is pretty sure he hears before the sound of Clint collapsing into his bed upstairs is "Fuck, I hate sleeping alone."

***

Clint is very aware that he’s sick. His throat hurts. He’s also aware that Phil is hovering by the edge of his bed, and he is thankful that his throat hurts because he’d be otherwise tempted to admit how much he likes the sight.

“I’m sorry, I gave you my homeless dude germs.” Phil says, which isn’t a particularly funny phrase, except he is grinning a self deprecating grin, and he’s holding a glass of orange juice.

“Urgh.” Clint groans, reaching for it. He buries his head in his pillow, because he’s having some trouble coping with how good looking he thinks his own personal angel of mercy with orange juice is, and how incredibly inappropriate it is to think that thought. His next thought is that the orange juice is clearly not from the large plastic bottle of Sunny D he’d had in the fridge, but actually tastes like fresh oranges.

“I have a cold, but I’m pretty sure you’re about to die from the black plague.” Phil says. “The orange juice is from the corner bodega downstairs because they have a giant sack of bruised oranges for a dollar. Also, you’re right about not being much of a cook, but you do have the basics in your kitchen and I’m going to make you some french toast.”

Clint can’t help staring as Phil clambers back down the stairs and returns with forty pounds of dog in his arms, depositing Lucky on the bed. “Take care of him, Lucky.” Phil commands, before heading out again.

Clint hears the clatter of cooking in the kitchen and smells something delicious which Lucky(the traitor!) soon abandons his post on the bed to go check out. Before long, Phil is back, balancing another glass of juice and two plates of french toast in his hands, while trying to avoid Lucky, who is prancing around his feet.

Clint pats the side of his bed and Phil complies by sitting down near the end of the bed. Clint had forgotten that he was hungry, but the sight of the golden brown toast is the most beautiful thing in the world, second possibly to Phil grinning like he knows that his cooking’s good.They eat together in silence before Phil stands up, putting a hand out for the empty plate.

“Where are you going?” Clint asks, because isn’t Phil sick too? “Please don’t run away.” He feels like his voice is a little more petulant than it should be, and the words come out a little more whiny than commanding.

“I’m going to the library.” Phil says. “I’m going to redo some of the research I did for Pepper...I’ve reread some of it, and it’s pretty awful. She’s just been being nice to me, but she deserves better. And then, I’m going to take another look at my resume.”

“Oh. Okay. Um, use my address.”

“For what?” Phil asks, looking a bit confused.

“Your resume. It’s better to have a physical address on a resume than a P.O. Box.” Clint says.

Phil looks somewhere between constipated and grateful. “Thank you.” he says. Even in his hazy state, Clint is pretty sure he wants to see that smile on Phil’s face forever.

***

At the library, Phil seeks out a pile of books about starting a small business and goes to check them out. He’s also vaguely aware that Clint might not have called in sick to work, and so he goes to tell Natasha. She appraises him with an arched eyebrow, before breaking out into a huge grin.

“It’s about time he got his act together.” Natasha says. “He really likes you, you know?”

Phil doesn’t know what to say to that, because he’s still working on believing that Clint is happy to tolerate his presence, much less like him, so he just nods awkwardly. Natasha looks down at his books. “What are these for?” she asks.

“Um. Clint said he might want to start a bookstore someday.” Phil says.

“Huh.” Natasha says, looking surprised, and she looks like she’s about to say something, but doesn’t, returning to the process of efficiently checking out his books instead. It’s odd, Phil thinks - wouldn’t have Clint mentioned his plans to start a bookstore someday to Natasha? They were such good friends, after all.

Clint is still in bed when Phil returns from the library in the early afternoon. His arms are piled high with books, some of the small business books that Phil borrowed, and the rest relevant to the case law that Pepper needed researched.

Phil tries to climb the stairs silently to check on Clint, but the ladder is squeaky and Clint groans himself awake, smiling blearily when he rolls over and sees Phil standing there.

“How’re you feeling?” Phil asks. “The meds kick in yet?”

“I’m good. I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.” Clint answers, before burrowing into his pile of blankets again. His voice is earnest and honest, and Phil doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve that trust, but he’s determined to live up to it.

There’s something that centers in him, somewhere between rummaging in the cabinets for chicken broth and stopping by the corner bodega for nearly-wilted vegetables and a package of frozen chicken parts that don’t really have to be identified all that closely, since they’re going into soup. He can do this, he can make soup for a sick man, he can be someone’s caretaker, if only for a few days.

Phil sits on the floor of Clint’s loft apartment for a few minutes, carefully stacking up the books in organized piles. There is something clear in his head now, something calm and serious and determined. He hasn’t felt it in a long time, but it’s there, the little seeds that reassure Phil Coulson that he isn’t useless. He isn’t worthless. He’s Phil Coulson, and he’s in a bit of a jam right now, but there is a light of hope at the end of all this because he is a good person, and he works hard, and he has friends.

He calls Pepper.

“Phil, are you okay?” is the first thing that Pepper says, and Phil figures that he really needs to stop lying to his friend.

“Pepper, I’m redoing the research you needed.” He says instead, because he’s been lying to her for a while now, and old habits die hard.

“Don’t worry about it Phil, it’s fine.” Pepper’s voice is high and strained.

“It’s terrible. Did you even read it?”

Pepper is silent on the other end of the phone.

“You didn’t even read it, did you?” Phil sighs.

“Phil, I know.” Pepper says. “Please move in with me. I have a spare room, I can give you whatever you need.”

“I’m actually okay right now. I’m staying with a friend.” Phil considers taking up Pepper’s offer. He could get out of Clint’s hair. But Pepper is a whirlwind of efficient friendship, and he doesn’t want her to put his life back together for him. He doesn’t want her to give him everything he’ll need. Some things, he just needs to do himself.

“Are you telling me the truth?” Pepper demands.

“I have to do this myself, Pep. Not all of it, but I need to prove that I can be okay.” Phil explains, hoping that she understands.

“Goddamn, Phil. I want to help you. Please let me help you.” Pepper begs.

Phil takes a deep breath. It’s strange actually, how well his mind is working now that he’s gotten some sleep. “I owe seventy thousand dollars in medical debt. And a bit more in student loans. I need help declaring Chapter 7 bankruptcy.”

He can hear Pepper sigh in relief. She knows this, he thinks, she knows bankruptcy law, and how to navigate the system ruthlessly in his favour. It’s what Pepper is good at, not the subterfuge of trying to help him out by pretending to hire him, or the constant invites to dinner parties sure to provide leftovers. Pepper is good at paperwork, and bureaucracy, and she’s a good friend, and he’s going to let her be a good friend. It’s a difficult request, he knows, but admitting an inability to deal with complex paperwork is no real blow to his dignity. No one does bankruptcy paperwork well.

“I can do that.” Pepper says. “I can definitely do that.”

Outside the window, there is a lemon tree, growing incongruously in a square little patch of dirt surrounded by concrete pavement. Next to him, Lucky whines and scratches at the window.

Phil goes for a walk, Lucky running along like a dog with no comprehension of New York’s leash laws. By the time Phil returns with a fresh lemon, and busies himself making a cup of tea with honey and fresh lemon for Clint, who’s making sounds of waking up upstairs, and the apartment fills with the comforting scent of the chicken soup simmering on the stove, he’s come to terms with the fact that he isn’t a homeless man anymore.

 


	4. Chapter 4

  
Clint gets better, as does Phil’s standard issue cold.

Phil still has bad days, because things aren’t great, not yet. He wakes up one morning, and he pulls on his old camo pants and jacket instead of a suit, and instead of taking the subway to the library, he walks outside and sits down at a street corner and stares blankly into space for six hours. When Clint finds him, sitting catatonic on a filthy street corner, there is five dollars in loose change tucked neatly under his ankle. Clint makes him take his bed that night. In the morning, there is a list of free therapists on the counter.

“You need help.” Clint says, and his voice is non judgmental but certain. It’s grounding, Phil thinks, to be told that he needs help. To be politely informed that he needs help, and he is going to go get it, and so he does. He is an old Army man, and he knows how to follow orders.

In two weeks, Phil goes to an interview in a freshly dry cleaned suit, after having gotten a standard eight hours of continuous sleep, and a hearty breakfast that he cooks for Clint and himself. The job is for a friend of a friend that Pepper knows, and as he answers the interview questions easily and calmly, he feels confident that this time, he won’t be embarrassing Pepper.

He signs the bankruptcy paperwork that Pepper helps him prepare, and he signs an application for food stamps while he’s at it. He had been holding out before, afraid of the looks at the grocery store that he had expected to be worse than the food pantry, but Clint assure him that the food stamps are actually just cards now, that swipe at the register just like any other credit card.

He finishes writing a memo for Clint, concisely describing all the steps and procedures necessary to start a small business in the state of New York. He proofreads it several times when he’s done, satisfied that his ability to research things well is back in order now that he’s getting eight hours of sleep a night and can think of more things than the relative nutritional value of canned foods.

“Oh wow.” Clint says, when Phil hands over the binder that he’s compiled everything in. He opens it, his eyes dwelling on the section about applying for small business loans. “I - um. This is amazing, but - um.”

“But you didn’t mean that you were planning on starting a bookstore right now?” Phil’s figured it out already, figured out that Clint was just making a kind attempt to let Phil barter his skills and didn’t actually have any concrete plans to open a bookstore. But, he’s seen the way Clint behaves at the library, the way he happily recommends books to parents and children alike. Phil’s noticed the Clint Barton fan club, library patrons that hang on his every word and rule and recommendation as if it were the word of a benevolent literary god. Clint might not really think that he can open a bookstore, but Phil thinks he can.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s a dream. But - you know.” Clint stutters, holding the binder awkwardly in his hands.

“I know. But, it’s a good dream, regardless.” Phil says. “I think you’d be really good at it.”

Later, Phil catches Clint poring over the binder intently, scribbling notes down on the side of the pages. He also finds his sticky note that reads “Small Business Startup Guide” on the front of the binder replaced with one that reads “Hawkeye’s Books.”

Phil buys ice cream with the first deposit to his EBT card, and orange juice and milk and eggs and pasta and ground beef, and Clint doesn’t say anything when he notices the new groceries in the house, doesn’t protest or insist on paying, just says “thank you” and Phil is grateful that Clint’s letting him pull his own weight around the place. He fixes things around the apartment - figures out the problem with the garbage disposal, and moves on to addressing the leaky faucet. He's just trying to help around the house, contribute a little to the roof over his head, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't love the happy expression on Clint's face whenever he discovered another tiny fix.

In the evenings, he cooks, figuring out some sort of dish from whatever Clint brings home and the pantry staples, and Clint makes awestruck noises about his family’s secret mac and cheese recipe. They always sit on the couch afterwards, Phil with a library book, and Clint with reruns of Dog Cops, and Lucky spanning both their laps, and it’s a quiet sort of domesticity that Phil holds on to like a beacon of hope.

It’s a little bit funny how fast the help comes now that he’s asking for it. He’s never really thought he had many friends - just Pepper, really. But, he asked his old Army friend Jasper if he could crash on his couch for a night just so Clint could have his place to himself for a day. The answer was yes, and a permanent yes for any other nights he might need in the future.

Maria, the pleasant woman from the Navy who had helped him navigate the complex labyrinth of Veterans Affairs a few years ago, met with him on short notice and had a list of low cost housing options available in just thirty minutes - not a list of shelters or halfway homes, but actual apartments with real doors and personal showers. Maria gets him back into therapy. “I know you spent six months at Walter Reed. But they don’t just fix everything. You have to keep at it. We all do.” She tells him stories of soldiers like him that still keep at it, even through the nightmares and the pain and the feeling of being absolutely worthless in the face of a world that’s stopped seeing them. She says he can do better, says that perhaps he can help them out someday too.

Phil knows he’s lucky. He has a way out, where many others don’t. He has friends, a bit of social net that wants to catch him, if only he’d let them.

He surprises himself a little bit, realizing how much he wants to try. That he wants to live. That he wants to get better, make it through the fire and emerge a little bruised and battered but still whole, still a person that’s worth something.

But, most surprising of all was the look on Clint’s face when he returned after spending a night on Jasper’s couch. “Hey, do you want eggs for breakfast?” was what Clint said, but the look on his face read relief and happiness and contentment and home.

“So-” Phil starts, as Clint starts to scramble eggs. Phil had taught him how, the simple chemistry of egg and milk and heat, and Clint’s been insisting on practising daily.

“Yeah?” Clint responds, stopping his egg beating for a second.

“If you’re going to have anyone over, just let me know and I’ll disappear for as long as you need.” Phil says. He doesn’t want to pry, but surely his presence is not conducive to Clint’s love life.

Clint looks at him curiously. “I’m not seeing anyone.” he says.

“But if you were, I’d make myself scarce. You don’t have to explain the weird dude sleeping on your couch.” Phil says.

Clint’s face takes on a quiet, serious expression before breaking out into a casual smile. “There’s no one I’d rather have here than you.” he says, and there’s something so heartbreakingly sincere about his tone that Phil has to make himself look away.

There’s something on the tip of Phil’s tongue, something that wants to tell Clint that this is the first time he’s wanted to be with someone in a long time. The first time he’s found his heart stirring when he’d forgotten that it still knew how to. He likes Clint, he realizes, something beyond a base attraction - something not just hungry, but devoted and stable.

There’s something in him that wants to respond to the way Clint’s looking at him, eager and open. He knows that look well, recognises it not as lust, but an open and honest affection. He doesn’t know that he deserves it yet, but he’ll devote his life to trying to be worthy of it, and he wants Clint to know that.

But Phil doesn’t say anything, and Clint ducks his head shyly, and the moment is gone.

***

“I got the job.” Phil says, walking in through the front door with a stack of brown paper bags. “Also, I got Chinese take out.”

Clint looks up from his place on the floor where he’s been teasing Lucky with a large bone. “Congratulations!” he says, but his heart’s not in it. He’s not sure how to tell Phil that he’s been happier in the past few weeks than he’s ever been, having the comforting presence of another person in his home, the quiet bustle of doing chores with someone else by his side.

“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.” Phil grins as he squats next to Clint. Lucky sniffs desperately at the paper containers, his tail beating on Clint’s arm. “My credit’s pretty much gone for the next seven years due to the bankruptcy filing. But, I’m going to rent a room from my friend Maria. She works with a veteran’s organization. And the job - they’re going to pay for me to finish my last year of law school with night classes.”

“That’s great, Phil. That’s really great.” Clint rolls over on his side, propping up his head with his arm. If he’d thought Phil was attractive when he first saw him, it doesn’t compare to Phil now, smiling and confident. He looks about five years younger, and Clint tamps down the crush that hasn’t dissipated any, even when paired with Phil’s calm disinterest.

They settle into the evening with takeout boxes on their laps. Clint flagrantly disobeys his own house rules and lets Lucky have an egg roll and some kung pao chicken, which a dog should not reasonably like.

Phil doesn’t have much to take with him when he leaves, just a medium sized duffel bag and a garment bag.

“I’ll miss you.” Clint says, which he thinks is as much as he’s allowed to admit. He’s not sure how to say the rest - that he’s been alone for a long time, that he’s genuinely liked Phil’s presence, that he’s perhaps actually grown attached.

It’s strange, Clint thinks, not having Phil in the library anymore. Phil’s been stopping by regularly, bringing him and Natasha coffee, the occasional pastry and updates on his job and life. Clint is happy for Phil, that he’s getting his life back in order, building something he can be proud of again. But, it’s not the same as falling asleep on the couch next to Phil, after a marathon of one of the terrible reality TV shows that Phil inexplicably enjoyed. And he’s been eating dinner alone over the sink again, which is just all sorts of pathetic.

“You miss him.” Natasha says.

“I really, really liked him.” Clint admits. “I just - I just don’t want to have a relationship that’s built on some perceived obligation.”

“He’s a proud man.” Natasha says.

“I like him that way.” Clint says, and he is certain that that is true as well.

He still looks around for Phil, though, even though he knows that Phil only comes by once a week now. He tries to bury down the want. Phil hasn’t shown any interest in him, and Clint’s pretty good at dealing with rejection. But there’s something about Phil that goes far beyond just being exactly his type. Phil’s a good man, and Clint could do with more of those in his life.

He perks up when he spots Phil walk in through the front doors of the library. Today, Phil is wearing a soft grey t-shirt and a pair of jeans that Clint hasn’t ever seen before. They look new, and the thought makes Clint happy. Phil nods a polite nod at Natasha, but makes a beeline for the children’s section. He is walking with a determined purpose, his mouth pursed and serious.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Clint asks, as Phil comes to a stop right in front of him.

Phil is shy as he hands an envelope over to Clint. “Nothing is wrong.”

“What is this?” Clint asks, even though he’s got a pretty good idea of what a large wad of cash feels like.

“Rent money.” Phil shrugs as if it were obvious, as if he actually owed Clint any money, which he doesn’t.

“Phil, you do not owe me rent money. Seriously.”

“No, I do, really. I wanted to tell you that I’m on track to graduate law school in a year. My friend Maria - she’s hooked me up with a legal clinic where I’m volunteering with Army veterans helping them navigate simple legal needs, which is why I haven’t been stopping by that much.”

“That’s great, Phil. You still don’t owe me anything.”

“And also, I would like to take you out to dinner.”

“No, you don’t - wait, what?” Clint sputters.

“Dinner. Not an obligation, not a thank you dinner, not me being nice in return for your kindness. Just a very selfish date sort of dinner.” Phil says, a bit stiffly, as if he’s been rehearsing the lines.

“Why did you wait so long?” Clint asks. It’s been two months since Phil has moved out and while they’ve spent some time together since then, short walks and coffee and library visits, Phil has shown no interest in anything more than friendship.

“I needed to actually pay you back, so you would believe I wasn’t attracted to you out of necessity or obligation.” Phil explains, and the look on his face is so serious that Clint wants to dissolve into childish giggling.

“Phil Coulson, the way your brain works baffles me.” Clint says. Phil’s asking him out to dinner. Phil likes him. He feels heady, like a nervous schoolboy, and he’s quite aware that he’s blushing a bright pink and that Natasha is going to make fun of him for this for a long time to come.

“I just wanted to be on equal footing -” Phil starts, but Clint’s had enough of Phil’s endless justifications, and it’s much simpler to just step forward, and kiss him.

It’s a tiny, chaste kiss, just lips brushing against each other and an awkward nose bump, because they are standing in the children’s section of a library, and Natasha is politely ushering a patron and her child in the opposite direction.

“So, can I take you out to dinner?” Phil asks again, and the determination on his face makes Clint chuckle.

“Yes!” Clint yelps. “Absolutely a thousand times, yes. But - erm, can I be honest?”

Phil furrows his forehead when he says - “Sure?”

Clint manages to fake a put upon sigh, because the alternative is an gleeful squeal of joy, and it would be very unbecoming of a librarian to be that loud. “I really miss your cooking.”

***

“I still can’t believe you can cook.” Clint says, his mouth full of chicken piccata. Phil, true to his word, had agreed to cook instead of going out to dinner. When he had showed up at the familiar door, arms full of dinner related groceries, Lucky had nearly lost his mind, and it was only a well timed lunge by Clint that made sure that they weren’t just eating tomato and lettuce sandwiches instead. Now Lucky was sitting on Phil's feet under the table, and happily gnawing on some sort of gigantic meat treat, courtesy of Phil, that looked like it might have been sliced off a dragon.

“I can’t believe you like me.” Phil responded, his eyes twinkling.

Clint nearly chokes on his bite of chicken. “Are you kidding? Dude, do you have any idea how much I’m into you?”

Phil looks down shyly, and Clint considers that bashfulness is not a good look on the man.

“I told you I was a convicted felon, and you didn’t flinch.” Clint adds. “That’s something.”

“To be fair, I was also homeless at the time.” Phil retorts.

“It’s not a personal failing.” Clint points out. “Lots of good people end up homeless.”

“Like you?”

“Well, I wasn’t a good person.” Clint shrugs.

Phil swallows his last bite of chicken picatta. “You are.”

“What are you thinking?” Clint asks, because Phil is looking at him intently, his eyes focused on some spot between his eyes and his hands.

Phil sighs. “I’m deciding on the best way to make a move on you. It’s a bit harder when I’m not intent on prostituting myself.”

Clint laughs, because Phil is making a joke about the most awkward and horrifying start possible for their relationship, and that means that it’s okay, and Phil’s okay and everything will be okay. And if what Phil needs is a little bit of reassurance that yeah, Clint really thinks that he’s the hottest thing on two legs, then Clint is perfectly glad to provide the man with a physical demonstration.

It’s more hesitant than passionate at first, Clint coming around the table to crouch in front of Phil, angling his face up to look at Phil. Phil leans over though, capturing Clint’s mouth in a painfully slow kiss. Clint hasn’t been kissed quite like that before, both gentle and demanding. By the time he has to pull away to breathe, he’s certain that he looks absolutely wrecked, which has to be a record, since he’s still completely dressed.  
  
Phil doesn't look much more composed, eyes heavy lidded when Clint pulls away with his hands on Phil's thighs.

"So, I want to suck your cock," Clint says, because he does, and neither of them have a particularly great history with reading cues from one another, so it seems best to be as clear about things as possible. It makes Phil chuckle and pull him closer with a careful hand on Clint's neck for another set of kisses, and Clint feels a ribbon of tension unravelling as he slides his hands up and starts undoing Phil's fly without breaking their kiss.

"Well, I would love that," Phil says once they've pulled apart.

"You can yank on my hair if you want," Clint says conversationally, as he wrestles with Phil's pants. He looks up and grins. "I like that. A lot."

Phil nods, seriously. "I'll keep that in mind."

Clint continues talking about what he likes, what he wants to do, and what he wants Phil to do to him. The words sound filthy, even though he's trying not to be particularly dirty at all - he just really wants Phil to know exactly how much he wants this, which is a lot. Mostly, he just wants to see Phil naked, after spending months idly thinking of the triangle of skin around his collar when he leaves his first two shirt unbuttons undone. It’s practically Victorian, this lust, and Clint’s pretty sure that he could masturbate to the sight of Phil’s forearms alone at this point, although he’d really rather they be mutually and enthusiastically naked. He’d also very much like to be bent over on his bed(or kitchen counter, he’s really not that picky), and considers that he should probably inform Phil of that too. "And you can fuck me. You should definitely fuck me, Phil."

"Really?" Phil asks, not helping Clint's efforts to get at his cock until Clint whines in frustration, forciby lifting Phil’s hips and pulling the zipper down the last inch and a half before pushing them down together with his underwear.

Clint nods as he pulls off Phil's pants one leg at a time. "Yeah," he says, gazing at Phil's cock. He blinks. "I mean, if you want to. Whatever you want, Phil."

He settles between Phil's legs and takes a good look. Apparently he is gawking for a bit too long, because Phil touches Clint's arm and asks, "Is something wrong?"

"No! God, it's just I've been thinking about seeing you - um - naked - since pretty much the first time I laid eyes on you at the library. And er - you have a really nice cock?" It feels a bit silly, Clint thinks, narrating exactly what is in his head. He feels a bit like David Attenborough, educating television viewers on the mating habits of middle aged gay men. Here you have a Phil Coulson, a fine and distinguished male specimen, and a Clint Barton, the unlikely mate that the Coulson has graciously selected for the night. Watch, as the Barton divests himself of his pants, specially selected for their propensity to highlight his impressive ass cheeks.

But, Clint wants to get this right, and if it means being as clear as possible - even if it means sounding like an awkward teenager looking at a penis for the first time in his life - he’s alright with that.

"Oh, it's not-" Phil stops saying whatever it is he was about to say as Clint leans forward and sucks the tip of his cock into his mouth. He hums happily around it, moving his hands to slide over the warm skin on Phil's hips as he swallows it down, just as warm, and hard, and perfect as he'd imagined it. He gags a little when he gets down to the last inch or so, which makes Phil draw back nervously, so he holds his breath and loosens his throat and presses onwards, which draws a ridiculous sound out of Phil, somewhere between a squeak and a groan. It’s a damn good sound, Clint thinks.

Clint wasn't lying about liking his hair pulled, so he's pleased to feel Phil slide his fingers into his hair, although he doesn't tug or put any pressure beyond the weight of his hand. Clint pulls off with a pop to press his head against Phil's hand harder. "I wasn't kidding about the pulling," he says, letting out a tiny, delighted gasp when Phil tightens his fingers.

"Like that?" Phil asks, running his fingers through Clint’s hair and clasping his hands around the back of Clint’s head. Clint closes his eyes and nods when Phil loosens his fingers, slumping back down to press kisses to the base of Phil's cock and his balls.

Phil pulls at Clint's hair again until he finally looks up from where he's drawing circles with his tongue up the side of Phil's perfect dick. "Can we go upstairs?" Phil asks, sweetly and politely. Clint has a flash of the last time and opens his mouth to say something, although he's not sure what he can actually say that isn’t awkwardly mood ruining. Phil shakes his head and offers a reassuring smile. "I want you too. I want to watch you. Your --" he stops like he's not sure he can say what he wants to say.

"What?"

Phil bites his lip and doesn't quite meet Clint's eye. "I just really want to - I mean, is it weird that I've been thinking about sucking _your_ cock since, y'know?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe?" Clint laughs as he stands, not caring that his erection is very obviously tenting his pants. He does care about how Phil's eyes are drawn to it, and the way he licks his lips, a pink tongue snaking out in a manner that shouldn’t be sexy, but really is. He holds out a hand to help Phil up, kissing him when they're finally face to face again. "For the record, from what little I remember of that night, it was probably a great blowjob."

Phil cringes a little, but his expression doesn’t shutter closed. “How about we just pretend this one is our first time?”

Clint grins. “For you, I’ll even pretend I’m a virgin. Or Captain America. Whatever you’re into, really.”

A golden lump of scruffy fur noses against Phil’s thigh, and Clint groans. “Lucky, no!” he grumbles, tearing himself away from Phil’s side to shove Lucky out the door. “This one is _my_ meat stick.”

Phil huffs a short breath of laughter and then keeps going with it, a chuckle turning into a full on guffaw. “ _Meat stick_?” he wheezes, dissolving into a belly laugh. Clint joins him, giggling along until both their heads are thrown back in laughter, tension falling off them like snowdrifts. They're still laughing as they kiss again, as easy and as safe as two broken people can be, with kisses that turn deeper and ripe with promise and hope as they go on.

It's much easier after that(Lucky can be heard whining outside the front door, but the dog can be apologized to at a later time). Phil tugs Clint towards the stairs and they clamber upwards together, with a little bit of painfully amateurish thigh squeezing on the way. Phil pulls Clint down on top of him for more kisses, hands roaming over Clint's body as they pull at each other's clothes until Phil’s mostly naked(Clint’s clothes must be practically radioactive, considering how quickly they come off).

Phil seems wary about his shirt, and Clint doesn't want to push that button. He doesn't want to push any buttons, but least of all that one, so he just presses kisses to the skin he’s been allowed access to and resolves not to say anything.

But, Phil takes a deep breath and starts undoing his cuffs, with a look on his face that doesn't look relaxed at all. Clint holds onto Phil's hands and kisses him. "You can leave it on if you want. Or not! It's up to you. But, I've seen them. And it's fine." Phil's looking a little too tense for Clint's liking and he worries he's fucked it all up. "I just want to make you feel good. That's all I want. That's all I've ever really wanted, I think."

Phil stops, tipping up his head to the ceiling with a frustrated sigh. "Fuck. I'm so fucked up."

Clint glances down, taking a chance when he confirms that Phil's body, at least, is still eager and willing. "I'm plenty fucked up too. I can handle it if you can."

Phil takes another deep breath, this time it seems to push away the tension the last one brought in. He continues undoing his buttons. "We can talk about it later, ok? But my scars don't hurt, you don't have to be gentle."

Clint nods, drinking in the information with a hesitant smile. "Alright." He nods again. Yeah, this is okay. They'll be okay. "Can I get your cock back in my mouth now?"

Phil snorts and pulls Clint back down on top of him until they're pretty much laying face to face. "I thought you wanted me to fuck you," he reminds Clint, slyly smiling when Clint moans softly.

"I do. I- Hold on, let me just-" Clint rolls away to find the lube he keeps under the corner of the mattress.

"I wanna ride you, if that's alright?" Clint says once he's back, lube in hand. "And then maybe, like, over the side of the bed?"

What he wants the most is Phil on top of him, holding his hips bruisingly tight as he drives into his body, but that seems like kind of an imposition to ask for. If it were someone, else maybe Clint would feel less worried about just asking for what he wants, but it isn't anyone else, it's Phil, and he really doesn't want to make Phil anything other than comfortable. Well, comfortable and turned on. Comfortable and moaning in ecstasy, preferably screaming his name.

"Whatever you want, Clint," Phil replies. Clint would be perfectly content for Phil to lay there and to let him do all the work, but Phil leans up and pulls Clint down to his lips to kiss him and, with Clint distracted, he holds onto Clint with surprisingly strong arms and flips him onto his back. Clint drops the lube in the shuffle, disoriented by getting flipped over and then more so when slick fingers slide down the crease of his ass.

"Phil!" he gasps, looking down to also see his cock disappearing into Phil's mouth, and Phil's eyes watching him beadily until he closes them and seems to lose himself in what he's doing. Clint doesn't have the same sort of hair pulling permission as he gave Phil, but if Phil's gonna be doing that with his mouth and that with his fingers, Clint's gonna have to stop him or else this whole thing will be over before it's even begun.

"I don't wanna come ‘til you're inside me," Clint manages to say, and it comes out much more petulant than it was ever intended to, but Clint feels he can be forgiven since, yeah, even his hazy memory did serve him correctly - Phil's really good at blow jobs.

Phil's a little breathless when he pulls off to grin. "Sorry," he says, though he doesn't sound apologetic at all. "I got carried away." He kisses Clint's thigh and looks dreamily at Clint's cock before back up at Clint. "It's better than I remembered."

"Well," Clint says, swallowing. "I'd say we're off to a good start, since we’re really into each other’s cocks and all."

Phil smiles, and he looks a lot more comfortable after having Clint's cock in his mouth, like maybe doing this on his own terms is writing over his former nervousness. This is the real Phil, the man Clint fell for the moment he saw. Well, if he has to have his cock in Phil’s mouth in regular intervals to draw that wonderful, teasing, confident man out - then he’s certainly ready and willing to make that small sacrifice, Clint thinks.

Phil's fingers are still inside Clint's ass, stretching him slowly but insistently, and they move just right, making his toes curl before Phil slips them out to crawl up and kiss Clint again. Clint wraps his arms around Phil and holds him tight, stopping himself from exploring the scars he can feel on Phil's back with curious fingertips.

"Do you have a condom?" Phil asks. "I have one in my pants, but they're downstairs."

"In the drawer?" Clint says, because he's hardly able to get up and get one himself with Phil’s pleasing weight on top of him. He nods towards the nightstand and Phil goes, letting Clint see his back for the first time as he rummages through empty water glasses and old bank statements for a condom.

Phil's examining the box of condoms as he turns back, giving Clint the time to shuffle away all the questions he wants to ask; all the useless comforting things he desperately wants to say. Phil said they'd talk about it later and that's good enough for Clint. Phil frowns. "These expired last year."

Has it really been that long since Clint last had sex? He's been with other people, but well, this is probably the first time he's really wanted to go this far in a long time. Phil's looking at him expectantly and Clint shakes his head as he clambers clumsily out of bed. "Stay here, I'm gonna…be right back."

Clint finds Phil's pants in a heap on the floor and Phil calls out from above, "In my wallet."

Clint manages to fumble the wallet with clumsy hands, but there's the condom, and it’s not some pocket-ravaged ancient thing. He doesn't bother to examine it too closely, just scampers back up the ladder to present Phil with it like the gold foiled trophy that it is.

"Where were we?" Clint asks, kneeling on the bed. Phil looks him over and Clint feels like basking in the heat of his gaze. Even without the suit, Phil seems so put together and focused, and Clint still can't quite believe he's chosen to focus that precise energy on him.

"I was going to fuck you, since you asked so politely." Phil says easily, tearing open the condom and rolling it on. The sight makes Clint whimper.

"Yes. Please," he replies. He shuffles around so he's facing away from Phil and wiggles his ass a little before bending down onto all-fours. Phil whispers a quiet happy curse behind him, reaching out to gently check Clint’s readiness.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m fucking ready.” Clint sputters, as Phil’s fingers continue their minute exploration.

Phil doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry, and Clint is about to become a lot more demanding when Phil settles onto the bed behind Clint and runs his hands down Clint's back, pressing kisses over his shoulders before straightening back up and sliding home. Clint's eyes roll back in his head as he does it and he manages an undignified moan. Phil slides his hand back up Clint's back to rub his thumb over the back of Clint's neck, which only serves to make him moan again, a little bit louder this time.

"You alright?" Phil asks, concern laced with arousal in his voice; he's barely keeping it together either.

Clint nods against the covers before lifting his head enough to say, "S’good. So good. Oh my god."

Phil gives him an experimental thrust in and out, painfully slow. Clint twists his head around to half scowl, half pout at Phil. " _Fuck_ me. I can take it."

That garners a deeper thrust with more power behind it, and Clint huffs in pleasure as Phil keeps going, sliding his hands up and down Clint's back and holding onto his shoulders for a while before moving back down to grasp his hips. Clint doesn't want to reach down to take himself in hand, because he doesn’t have much faith in his ability to hold it together if he did. Instead, he reaches his hands out in front of him, stretching out for nothing in particular. Phil slides his hands back down his arms, until they're perfectly aligned against each other and their grunting mouths are inches apart.

Clint feels covered, possessed, and safe with Phil on top of him, pressed into him as if they were always meant to fit together this way. Phil pulls on Clint's arms, and for one thrilling moment, Clint thinks he's going to hold them behind his back, but Phil lets them go in favour of slipping a hand around Clint's jaw to angle his face back towards him for an awkward and breathless kiss. It's mostly teeth, but it's wonderful just the same.

Clint panics for a moment when Phil lifts off of him and pulls out, but Phil shushes his noise of consternation and rolls him over quickly before easily slipping into him once again. "I wanted to see you," Phil says, once he's arranged their legs to his liking and resumed his previous pace. He plants his hands either side of Clint's face and leans down to kiss him. "And I wanted to kiss you."

Clint just grins in reply, because that's so nice. Phil's so fucking nice, he can barely stand it. He says so, of course, because his brain doesn't get a chance to interrupt when he's feeling this good. Phil kisses him, instead of laughing at his stream of consciousness blabbering, and then peppers a million tiny kisses over Clint's face, and down his jaw and over his neck, which is good on its own but much better when Phil's hand finally finds its way into his hair and pulls hard.

"Oh, that's so good," Clint says breathlessly, arching against Phil and tightening his legs around him. "Again."

And so Phil does it again, fucking him and kissing him and tugging at Clint's hair just hard enough to light up everything else with tiny neon sparks of pain.

Phil gets faster, sitting back for the leverage to really let go and pound into Clint, chasing his own orgasm. Clint encourages him, his heels digging into the small of Phil's back in time with his thrusts.

"Can I come on you?" Phil says suddenly, looking helplessly down on him. Clint nods and Phil immediately pulls out, loses the condom and comes, a hot spray across Clint's belly as he grits out what Clint thinks is the word 'fuck', only drawn out until it's about eighteen syllables long. Clint suspects that he’ll get to see it again soon, now feeling fairly confident that Phil will be back for more, but he tries to burn that image of Phil’s unravelled face into his memory all the same.

It doesn't take much for Clint after that, the warm slick of Phil's cum making excellent lube to jerk himself to completion with. Phil watches breathlessly as Clint rocks his hips and fucks into his hand, and then he moves aside, and Clint thinks he's going away again except all he does is angle Clint's jaw just right for another deep, hungry kiss, swallowing the moans Clint makes when he comes.

“Well, that was something.” Clint says, although it is mostly an unintelligible mumble into a pillow. He’ll be sore tomorrow, and he’s already looking forward to it.

“Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night too?” Phil asks, his lips smirking upwards, belying the faux seriousness on his face.

“Can I tell you what I’d really like?” Clint says, turning his head slightly to look at Phil, who’s blinking at the ceiling.

“Sure.”

“I’d like you to stay.” Clint admits. It’s a bold confession, and he wants to inject some flippancy into his voice, but he can’t.

“Stay? Here?”

Clint sits up, because this is a speech to be delivered with a straight back. “I’m not a complicated man, Phil. But I was lonely. And, you came into my life, and you made me happy. I like you. Lucky adores you. I want to wake up to the smell of you brewing coffee and cooking breakfast. I want to take care of you when you get sick, and I want you to make your mom’s chicken soup when I get sick. I want to sit on the couch with you, eating takeout and watching bad reality TV. I want you hogging the kitchen counter with your law books. I want you in my life, and I’ve gotten spoiled getting a taste of what it’s like to have you in my home, and I very selfishly want to keep you here.”

Phil shakes his head regretfully. “I can’t move in, not yet. I just signed a lease and it's just subletting from Maria but - I just need to have my own space for a while.”

Clint nods in affirmation. He gets it, understands Phil’s need to assert himself in his slowly re-coalescing world. Phil is a proud man, and Clint knew that from the very beginning, and he wouldn’t want Phil any different.

“But, I’d like you to come over. A few times a week, if Maria’s okay with that.” Phil adds.

“I’m willing to take it one night at a time. If you are.” Clint offers.

“In that case, I’ll definitely cook you breakfast tomorrow morning.” Phil says. He reaches over to pull Clint down on top of him, and Clint goes happily.

***  
 _epilogue_  


Hawkeye’s Books opens on a beautiful summer day, six months after Phil passes the bar examination. Lucky prances around in a purple dog hoodie, which is very odd because Lucky is not a dog prone to prancing.

“Hi, I’m Clint Barton. Welcome to Hawkeye’s Books.” Clint says, standing in front of the store, where their family and friends are gathered. Next to Clint are the new staff of Hawkeye’s Books. Phil knows them, because he’s worked with them at the legal clinic where he still volunteers. They’re old vets, just like him - just trying to get back on their feet, just waiting for a little bit of trust and a little chance. And they’re trying, him and Clint, to be that chance.

Clint looks over at Phil, waving him to step up in front of the crowd. “This here is my boyfriend Phil. He’s the heart of this place, really. He made me believe that I could actually do this. He’s a hotshot lawyer, and Hawkeye’s wouldn’t exist without him.” The crowd giggles, and Phil can hear Natasha and Pepper’s loud whooping.

Phil groans. “I’m a just a first year associate lawyer.” he mutters in Clint’s ear, trying to peel away and return to his spot behind everyone else, but Clint has a calm and insistent grip around his wrist, and shows no intention of letting go.

So, he stays.

**Author's Note:**

> Potential trigger warning: In Chapter 2, Phil essentially decides to trade a blowjob for a warm place to stay the night. Clint is drunk, has no insight into Phil's thought process, and assumes that they are mutually attracted to each other(they are, but Phil's got some other issues going on at the time). 
> 
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